I Am Lord Voldemort

Chapter One

The Boy Who Sat Alone

The sky was a dirty gray, almost like the cold oatmeal he ate on most mornings. A light snow had fallen that morning and the ground was dotted in patches of white among the brown, dead grass. A few children played in the snow, gathering it up into tiny balls to throw between them in a little war. But not him.

Tom Riddle sat alone, watching them from under a large willow tree. Its sweeping branches made him a tiny little room that was fairly protected from the cold, harsh winds of dull November. All of the other children had hats and gloves to cover themselves up. His had been stolen and thrown into trees by the other kids.

He was different from the other children at Heatherview Orphanage for Girls and Boys, though he didn't know why. Exceptionally bright, he was the head of all his classes so he wasn't one of the 'stupid kids'. He didn't stand out in a crowd, save for being an inch or two taller than any of the others his age. Even his past life wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

His mother had died giving birth to him, living only long enough to name him. Tom Marvolo Riddle. He had never met his father, though he knew where he lived. It was the great big building on top of the hill in the middle of town. He had left his mother sometime before he had been born and hadn't bothered looking for his son. His name had, too, been Tom.

But the children still tormented him horribly, as if attracted to him like honey. Every day he had to hide away while they played their games at break. The boys had a habit of beating him up if they found him. The girls would all giggle and point at him, sometimes even going far enough to kick him in the shins. Even in class, the torture didn't end. They bombarded him in spitballs and hit him when the teacher wasn't looking. He hated it.

Often, he had thought about death. What death might feel like and how others would react to hearing about his death? He knew the children would smile behind their books and whisper about the horrible things that could have happened to him. He knew that they wouldn't miss him at all. But then he thought of his mother, who had died so that he could live. And then he would forget about the thought until the next time the children picked on him.

"Hey Tom, I gots a riddle for you. What's pale, skinny and black and blue all over?" Freddie Thorton, one of the biggest bullies in the orphanage, asked from the other side of the willow branch wall. Tom shook his head and hugged his knees to his chest, watching the boy closely. Most of his riddles involved beating Tom up and he wanted to be ready to run if that was the case.

Other children started to group around Freddie slowly, the older, bigger kids right around him. They were all grinning at something. That was when Tom jumped up and started running. He knew what it felt like to get pounded into the ground and he didn't want it to happen again any time soon. He was the fastest person in the orphanage and he knew that no one would catch him.

"You! It's you, Tom Riddle, after we find you again!" The boy's voice followed him as he ran faster and faster away from the crowd. All he wanted to do was get away to somewhere that he could be safe without the threats of being beaten up.

No, he knew that was a lie. What he really wanted was somewhere that he could be alone with his thoughts. In Heatherview, he was never alone. He shared a room two other boys, luckily both of them younger than he was. But even the tiny box of belongings that could be searched by any administrator whenever they wanted, leaving him no privacy.

There wasn't much in the box. A pair of dress shoes from last year that a man dressed in a cheap Santa costume had brought him. A handkerchief left by a wealthy patron of the orphanage that he had taken. The only item of true value was a locket. It was rusty, and the lid wouldn't close all the way, but it had been his mothers. It was all that he had left of her.

A muffled cry was all that Tom heard before he was thrown backwards and onto the cold pavement below him. He had run into something soft and warm. After a moment, he looked up to see the last person he had wanted to run into.

Harold Westerly was a big man in both appearance and title. He was the director of the orphanage and had a mean steak about him that could make some of the oldest students cower. But he was the worst to Tom by far. He scowled as Tom got to his feet, dusting off his pants shakily.

"And why, may I ask, were you running so quickly Mr. Riddle?" he spat. Tom bit his lip and looked down at the ground. He was outside. He was allowed to run as fast and as far as he wanted to, but yet the man still wanted to make a deal out of it. But arguing would only make whatever punishment he got become a whole lot worse. "Hmm?"

"I don't know, sir," his voice was low and shallow, with only an undertone of sarcasm. It seemed to be enough however, because Harold clucked his tongue and shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"I'll deal with you later. Right now, I have to go and meet some guests." And with that, he pushed Tom out of the way and put on a wide smile.

The guests would be, of course, people requesting a child. They were the only people to ever come around Heatherview, except for a lost motorist or a friend of Harold's. It was every child's dream to go home with one of the families that came by, though Tom felt it much more than any of them. It would have been his way of being alone.

He quickly turned around and saw that some of the boys had seen him just standing there and that they were now blundering toward him. Without a second thought to the visitors, he dashed toward the large brick building that was Heatherview.

The orphanage was the oldest building in all of Little Hangleton, having once been a hospital and also a school. Once the town had grown and Great Hangleton had been founded, they found no more need for the old, rotting building. Heather Backsford, however, saw the makings of something great and she bought it, turning it into what it was today. A house for children with no where else to go that pretended to care about its inhabitants.

"Tom! Come over here and help me with this," a voice to his left shouted as he skidded into the Main Hall. He smiled as he walked over to the girl who had yelled.

Opal was the only person who he could at all consider a friend. She was the serving maid and cook for the orphanage and had, if unofficially, adopted him as her own son. She would care for his bruises and feed him whenever he was hungry. He even slept down in her room on occasion, on a blanket on the floor. That was when he could sneak away from his room after hours. She was everything he had.

"I haven't seen you at all today Tom," she said absently, handing him a feather duster. He moaned, but went about cleaning the pictures of all the directors that the orphanage had ever had over the years that hung the walls. Only for Opal would he do more work than he was assigned, but that still didn't mean he would complain. "Where have 'ya been?"

"Outside, playing with the children." He pretended to be intent on the frame in front of him when he felt her stares. He would always come inside during break to avoid the children. They would talk about his lessons and have tea in her room until the bell rung out, signaling that classes were starting again.

She tilted her head to the side and grabbed his arm. "Do you have any bruises? What were you doing? Did they hurt you?" Sometimes she could be a little over ecstatic about his well being, but he suspected that that's what mothers were for. He pulled it away and continued dusting.

"No, they didn't hurt me. We told riddles," he lied. If she had known that he had been close to another beating, she would have had a fit. After a moment, she went back to her own work, humming softly as she went.

Visitors to the orphanage would often comment on the boy who was always helping the serving girl. They wanted to know who he was. Who his parents had been. Why he was such a hard worker. Harold always turned the subject away from Tom as soon as possible, but their questioning eyes would still follow the boy and girl as they dusted or brought away the tea.

"Opal, tell me that story again. The one about the wizard." Opal was good at telling stories. She had a way of pulling him into what was going on that fascinated him and made him laugh in all the right places. Cry in all the right places. The wizard one was his favorite.

"Once, long ago, there was a boy who had magical powers. He was a wizard, and very powerful at that. When he grew up, he went to a school full of other boys and girls just like him," she began explaining the school in detail, right up to the enchanted ceiling. He forgot what he was doing for a moment as he listened to her go on about the boy and his adventures "And that's it. Why do you like that one so much?"

"I don't know," he replied with a sigh. "Is magic real?"

She shook her head. "Of course it isn't. It's all just a story that I like to tell and you like to listen to. Now, we have to go and get the tea ready for the visitors before Harold has a fit." Grabbing the duster away from him, she started off down the hall. He followed her closely, hoping for more stories to pass the time. "How long until your next class?"

"About ten minutes," he replied, pulling out a small, metal object. It was a cheap pocket watch he had gotten for Christmas one year. It was old, but it still worked well enough. He checked it and sighed. "Five minutes."

They walked down the large, sweeping halls in silence after that, the only sounds being the soft padding of their feet. Soon, children would fill the hall and their boots would track muddy messes for Opal to clean while they had class. But she was in a cheery mood now and he didn't bring it up. If he had time, he would help her clean.

Whenever he thought about his future, he would always find himself here and Heatherview with Opal. They would clean it and keep it safe for all the wayward children who came through. It was an odd dream for a ten-year-old child to have, true, but it was all that he was good at. Cleaning with Opal. And anyway, he would never leave the orphanage, the way things were going.

He had never once been looked at for an adoption. He had often enough watched as children around him were sent in and out to home after home, leaving him to hide in the shadows. No family wanted the quiet, hardworking boy after Harold got done telling them lies about him. How he was really a tyrant, how he bullied the students and how he scared everyone whom ever came.

"Tom, are you still with me? Did you fall asleep on your feet?" Opal asked, looking at him confused. He was a quiet child, true, but not around her. Around her he would always be talking about his dreams and his life and anything else that crossed his mind. She liked that about him. "Maybe you should go lay down. You don't look very good."

"Hmm? No, I'm fine. I was just thinking about some things." His eyes went to the floor to avoid looking at her. He could, once again, feel her eyes heavy on him as she searched for the full truth. She gave up again after awhile, but every few seconds her eyes would flit to him.

They were quiet as they walked, Tom thinking about what it would be like to be adopted. Having a family who cared for you, a mother to give her hugs and cook you good things to eat. A father to teach you how to throw a ball correctly. Maybe a sister or a brother to play tag and will-o-wisp with. He supposed Opal was a mother to him, but the other two, even she couldn't replace.

"You birthday is on Monday, isn't It Tom?" Opal asked, dragging him from his fantasy world. He nodded, a large frown on his face. Nobody ever celebrated his birthday. Ever. Opal had only been there since early spring of that year, so he had always had no one to be with. He was used to it, but every year he hoped and wished and dreamed. "What do you want?"

He blinked at the question. Children at the orphanage didn't want things. They had all they would ever need and they were supposed to be happy. What he really wanted, however, she could never give him. A family. "A book that isn't ripped on the pages like my text books. I don't care what it's about, I just want a book." He said this in a rushed tone, as if afraid she was joking and would laugh at him. She didn't.

"I'll see what I can do. Now take this," she shoved the tea tray into his arms and he gaped. He hadn't realized they had walked all the way to the kitchens already. She fumbled in a few cupboards and drawers, pulling random things out and setting them on the counter. Tom, already bored from standing there, started absently drumming his fingers on the tray and looking down at his feet.

In what seemed like only a minute, she was putting the teapot and three cups onto they tray. It might only have been him, but that tea had been made super fast, though maybe he just hadn't noticed. He hadn't noticed walking down into the kitchens, so anything could happen. Once she grabbed the sugar and a few scones from the oven, they started back upstairs.

Harold's office, where he received his guests, was on the second floor, right next to the Scripting room. That was what Tom had next period, so he didn't have to rush, but Opal seemed to think so. She was nearly running, leaving him to walk quickly and balance the tray by himself. Her job depended on her being on time. Him being there didn't.

When they got to the office, it was empty except for one little girl. Her hair, the color of strawberries, was tied up in an elaborate bun on the back of her head. Tom had never seen such a bun. Twists and folds and things he had never thought possible by the human hand. And her dress was also enough to catch his eye. A soft green, it seemed to shimmer.

"Oh, I'll go and fetch you some warm milk dear. I didn't know you were here. Tom, put the tray on the desk and wait here." And with that, Opal left. Tom did as he was told and leaned up against the wall, watching the little girl watch him. Neither of them spoke, until she smiled.

"You aren't full blooded, you know. Who do you get it from?" Her voice was soft and quiet, almost like a whisper caught up in a windstorm. He bit his tongue and looked at her, head tilted. He had no idea what she was talking about.

"Excuse me?" he asked, as politely as he could. The children were not supposed to speak in the presence of guests, even to other children. She shrugged and smoothed down a wrinkle on her dress. It sparkled again and he blinked.

"Full blood.... Come on, you have to have gotten your letter already! And that woman who came in with you, hasn't she told you?" the little girl replied. Tom opened his mouth to argue, when Harold's voice came from the other side of the office door.

"Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Lilin, that child you have picked out is a polite one..." Tom, not thinking properly, stood still, frightened. If he was caught in Harold's office, there would certainly be trouble. The girl, however, acted by pushing him quickly into a closet. She shut it up, ran across the room and sat back into her seat. A moment later, as Tom could see through the slits in the door, Harold and two people, each with hair the same color as the girl, came into the room.

"Yes, Mr. Westerly that girl did seem polite enough, but all those children look so thin! What are you feeding them?" Mrs. Lilin asked, sitting in a chair next to her mother. Her hand went to her daughter's arm and it rested there while she watched Harold sit at his desk. The tea tray lay forgotten for the moment, and Tom realized it was probably cold. Opal would be in trouble if it were cold.

"I feed them the standard Mutton stew, with some fresh bread and vegetables. And they all love it." Tom couldn't help but laugh inwardly at that. All that they did get was bread and water with the occasional slice of cheese. Sometimes, as a treat, they got the lumpy oatmeal that would have choked a cat. "So, if we can move on to..."

"Just a minute. I'm not done with the questions. Now, what is the girl's name and how old is she?" Mrs. Lilin continued, making Harold gap. No one, to Tom's knowledge, had ever cut him off like that. The man was steaming, though he was doing a fairly good job of hiding it. Only Tom, who knew exactly what he looked like when he was angry, seemed to notice.

"Maria Snider and she's seven. One of our prime students, she loves to..." Harold started, but was cut off once again.

"Mr. Westerly, I can clearly see that you are reading off a file under your desk. Now stop that and tell me what you personally know about her." Mrs. Lilin, Tom saw, was very good at noticing the little things. Apparently, so was her husband. He was staring at the door to where Tom was hiding, as if he could see him. That was when Tom realized that a part of his gray outfit was sticking through one of the slits. The girl, also seeing this, whispered something into her father's ear.

"I don't personally know the girl! I have much better things to do than to get to know a girl who will be leaving soon anyway!" Harold's voice may have gotten more frantic and fast as he went, though it somehow held a tiny piece of calmness. Mrs. Lilin didn't look happy with him.

"So, you know for a fact that all children leave? Aren't there children here who have been here since they were born?" It was the first time Tom had heard Mr. Lilin talk. His voice was deep and commanding. His soft, blue eyes flicked to the closet quickly, but he thankfully said nothing about the boy hiding away. "Do you know them?"

"No. And I don't need a lesson on how to run my orphanage from you two. Do you want the girl or not?" Harold had finally noticed the tea tray on his desk and had picked one of the cups up. After taking a sip, he shook his head and frowned. Just as Tom had thought. Cold.

At that moment, Opal chose to run in carrying the pitcher of milk. Harold, who hadn't been in a good mood to start with, lost it then.

"You! What have I told you about having tea ready before guests? And look, it's ice cold! Filth! That's all you are! You and that boy who you love so much." Opal's face never changed as she listened to Harold's rant, but when he got to Tom, she let her eyes flit to the little girl, and then to the closet. Harold saw her. "What do you have in the closet?"

Tom's mouth opened wide and his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to hide himself in some hidden corner, but it was too full of junk to move. He was trapped. He would be punished so much and Opal would most likely be fired. Harold was right outside the door when all of a sudden, Tom felt himself getting lighter and lighter until, when he opened his eyes again, he was lying on his bed in the dorm, curled up in a ball quivering.

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